“Who are your party?” I inquired.
“Freddy Block the vet, and I am sure he looks good enough for any society; my cousin Bob from Leeds, he is in a big outfitter’s; Annie Green, Dr. Mercer, Mother, brother Sam, and ourselves. It will be rather a crowd, but Sam can go outside.”
“Tossie, it is too kind of you, and I should love to go. I have not been to a dance since I left school, and I will fall on my knees to Lizzie—but what about my frock?”
“Oh, your black will do elegantly, and stick a bit of mistletoe in your hair! Now mind you don’t disappoint me, but try to get hold of Liz when she feels Christmassy and soft.”
I believe Lizzie was a little sorry for me on Christmas Day; my letters and cards had been so few and there was nothing from India. The drawing-room fire smoked, the turkey was nearly raw, the groaning professor had retired upstairs; on the whole we had a miserable festival.
The village itself wore a convivial air, and from my post in a deep-seated window I commanded a view of the street, and enviously noted the many cheery couples and families passing to and fro. From my niche I was summoned by Lizzie; according to immemorial custom the school-children were to have a treat on Boxing Day, and I was bound to lend a hand with the preparations. Accordingly, I spent the remainder of the holiday helping to ticket presents—taking care to see that there was no cause for jealousy or rivalry in their distribution; for instance, that the Cobbs received nothing that might outshine the Bolters, that little Tommy Ware was not endowed with a knife, or the “Beetle” baby with a box of paints. With unscrupulous subtlety I seized upon this exceptional opportunity, as my confederate had advised, to “talk up to Lizzie.”
“Lizzie,” I began, “I am still legally what is called an infant, and I should like a treat, too!”
“I only wish I could see my way to your having one, my poor child,” she replied, “I know this is a deadly existence for you, and I realise that you do have a very poor time, but what is the alternative?”
“We need not discuss that now, Liz, but the treat is to hand; the Plough and Harrow Inn, at Mirfield, is giving a dance on New Year’s Eve, it will be quite a respectable affair, with a piano, a fiddle and sandwiches. Mrs. Soady will chaperon me. Do let me go, my dear Lizzie,” and I seized her by the arm, “let me just have one dance, to circulate my blood, and try to feel like other girls!” I paused, and hung almost breathless on her answer. It was a long time in coming, but at last she said,
“Well, of course, the Soadys are all right, but they are not in your class, nor are their friends.”